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Each drinks at Will the Toast, and pays alone
Far better Converse fills our circling Time, Where Knowledge shines, and Ignorance is a
Crime; If splendid Wealth, or Goodness, can impart A purer Transport to the feeling Heart; If Fashion wisely guide the worldly Breast, To chuse for Friends the richest as the best ; From Virtue's Source if conscious Rapture flow, Or Pleasure form our Happiness below.
While thus we chat, the Vicar of the Place
A Country Vicar in his homely House,
Horse-radish, and Potatoes, Ireland's Pride;
• How can my Brother, in this paltry Town,
Squire ? • Stunn'd with the Discord of hoarse cawing
Rooks, « The Roar of Winds, the Dissonance of Brooks, • Which discontented through the Valley stray, • Plaintive and murmuring at their long Delay.
Come, come with Me, nor longer here abide; • You've Friends in Town, and I will be your
Guide : *
Soon to your Share some Dignity will fall, • At least a Sine-Cure, perhaps a Stall.'
These weighty Reasons sway'd the Vicar's Mind,
With bright Champaign the Courtier crown'd
the Feast, Sooth'd his own Pride, and gratify'd his Guest. All this confpir’d our Stoic to controul, And warp'd the steady Purpose of his Soul: But fond of early Hours, though light of Heart, When the first Watchman warn'd him to depart, His careful Hoft would see him cross the Square, Safe from the Coach, the Flambeau, and the Chair, As here, it seems, while meaner Mortals slept, At Riot-House were Midnight Revels kept. They clear'd the Coaches, and the Kennel cross’d; When, with their Poles, against a filthy Post Two Chair-men, Irish-born, our Vicar threw, Tore his best Cloaths, and bruis'd him black and
Aghaft he rose, first view'd his tatter'd Vest, Then rubb’d his Shin, and thus his Friend ad
dress'd : • Adieube Turtle, Routs, and Grandeur thine; • Beef, a good Coat, and a whole Skin, be mine!'
SA TIRE VII. A Dialogue between the Poet and bis Slave..
By Mr. J. DUNC OʻM BE: That every Man is a Slave, who is under the
Controul of bis Pasions.
DAVUS. To you I long have lent a listening Ear, Wishing to speak, but, as your Slave, forbear.
HORACE. Say, who is there? What, · Davus, is it you ?
DAVUS. The fame, Sir ; ever to my Master true : Though wise enough, yet not so wise that 2 Death In early Youth should ftop my vital Breath.
HORACE. The Freedom granted by our Sires of old On 3 Saturn's Feafts enjoy ; speak uncontrould.
DAVUS. Some, by their Passions blindly led away, Thro' the smooth Paths of lawless Pleasure stray : Some to and fro with Course unsteady swim, And practise Vice or Virtue for a Whim. Three Rings at Morn on Priscus' 4 left Hand shone, But the fame Hand at Night display'd not one. A various Dress he every Hour would wear : From a proud Palace he would ftrait repair